


Catching a Killer is Easy, Try Catching a Plane

by WhatWldMrsWeasleyDo



Category: Death Note
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 03:14:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1535507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatWldMrsWeasleyDo/pseuds/WhatWldMrsWeasleyDo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A delayed and diverted aeroplane is something that even the world's greatest detective can't change. Even L has to wait around at airports sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catching a Killer is Easy, Try Catching a Plane

**Author's Note:**

> **A Death Note Birthday Fanfic For**   
>  [](http://littleenglolita.livejournal.com/profile)   
>  [ **littleenglolita**](http://littleenglolita.livejournal.com/)

A delayed and diverted aeroplane is something that even the world's greatest detective can't change. Even L has to wait around at airports sometimes.

He doesn't like waiting in the public areas, because squatting with your feet on hard waiting room seats is something people only overlook once they know that you are at least three of the greatest criminologists alive. Usually Wammy supplies him with cakes and a dark, hidden space with Wifi. This time, though, he is travelling alone and he has ended up somewhere unexpected.

He is changing planes. The change was supposed to happen at Heathrow. That London airport had been researched, plans had been put in place. Then there was fog. Not even the combined Elite Police Forces of the world can blow fog out of the sky. His flight has been diverted to a city in the north of England where he knows no-one and nothing.

He pulls his laptop bag over his shoulder and it rests across his curved back as he queues with all the normal people to get off the plane. The ordinary people. These are the people who are not clever like he is, the people who had childhoods with their parents. They have mundane jobs and open identities; they have lovers, children, pets; they could be the innocent victims of a serial killer; any one of them could indeed be a serial killer; they could live and die unoticed. They look at him oddly.

His bare feet make a sticky, swishy noise as he pads across the wipe-clean floors. The fabric of his jeans flaps over his feet and onto the floor.

He has British currency. He can buy cake.

He likes his sweets creamy and sugary, topped with fruit, chocolate shavings, icing sugar, layered with pastry: indulgent. In the first shop they have only little plastic tubs of pudding in the open fridge and dry-looking cake slices in clear plastic. He buys a bag of mini-cookies to eat while he looks for something better.

He reaches into the bag with his long forefinger and thumb – only those two digits. He extracts one cookie. Only the very ends of his fingertips touch the biscuit. He lifts it into the air, always holding it from the top, never twisting his wrist down, until it is at eye level. Then he raises his mouth up to the bottom edge of the tiny, hard confection. He nibbles. He nibbles crumbs and chocolate chips from the bottom to the top.

When he has finished – which doesn't take nearly long enough – he sucks his finger and thumb into his mouth. You don't get to be a great detective without being observant and now he is aware that many in the milling crowd are openly staring at him.

It looks to be less populous upstairs. He heads for the stairs. Climbing up steps alters his centre of gravity, pitches his hands even further forward, even closer to the ground. It is only natural that they move those few extra inches, that they help his feet to carry his weight and the weight of his bag. But apparently, judging from the glares he is getting, others do not think it natural to climb stairs on all-fours.

Away from the noisy bar area is a bench in a little, dark corridor. It is a bench for four people, made of metal and painted red. There is nobody sitting at it and nobody in the corridor. L sighs. It's not so much that he wishes that he was conventional, nor is it that he does not understand people, it is just that he does not enjoy their attention.

Here he can relax, though, just himself and his laptop. Together they will wait for an announcement that their gate is boarding. Then he will catch another plane and, once again, the flight attendants will tell him to sit with his feet down while the 'seatbelt' light is showing.

He would like to eat something sweet. He finished his lollipops and his jar of jam on the first flight. There is a case of sweet things prepared for his onward journey but it waits uncollected at Heathrow.

He smells ice cream first: mint choc chip ice cream. Then he hears the light clopping of unusual soles. He looks up from his screen and he sees her.

She is short and pretty, with light brown, shoulder-length hair. She wears it pushed back from her face by a hairband with a large bow in it. Her eyes are green. They match her very English cardigan. Her blouse is black, though, as is her skirt. The skirt sticks out like the skirt of a doll. Combined with the knee-high, ribboned socks and the rocking-horse shoes, her lower half looks more Japanese than English.

Most importantly, though, this little English lolita is eating dessert. She looks surprised to see anyone in this otherwise empty corner. She looks away almost as soon as she has looked at him. She starts to back off.

L has to say something, he has to know how to get some of that ice cream for himself. He is not used to spontaneously opening conversations. In an investigation his every utterance will have been meticulously planned and rehearsed. He does not have a social life in which to practice these interactions.

“You have ice cream,” he states bluntly.

Her eyes flicker and for a moment he thinks she is going to leave without answering him, but then she gives him a look and it is not the same as the look he has been getting from people all day.

“Yes,” she says. Then she lowers her gaze to the floor.

“I am 98% certain that it is mint choc chip flavour and 84% certain that the cone is a sugar waffle cone.” L is pleased with himself. He is making conversation.

The young woman shrugs. “It's a cone,” she replies.

“I do not have an ice cream,” says L.

She nods slowly, unsure now, a little worried by his oddness. He decides to relax her. He wants to know how to get dessert. But also he thinks that he likes her. She is quiet like him.

“You dress like a Tokyo girl,” he says. “The shoes, are they difficult to walk in? I find all shoes difficult but those seem particularly hard.”

“No, they're actually surprisingly comfortable,” she replies. She is blushing a little. “I wish I did dress like the Tokyo lolitas,” she confesses. “I try. A bit.”

“It looks nice.” L is not sure why he says this. This compliment was not calculated in advance.

She moves a little closer, perches on the end seat of the bench. There are two seats between them. The laptop is on one of them, its case balanced against the screen.

“Have you been to Tokyo then?” she asks.

He nods. “Have you?”

She nods. “Once.”

He notices her necklace. The pendant is a tiny model of a cup cake. Now that is jewellery he can see the point of. Her ice cream is melting. Pale green liquid runs into the space between her thumb and forefinger. She bends her head to lick it off.

“Where did you buy your ice cream?” L asks.

“Oh, there's a stall.” She waves one hand vaguely.

Those are not directions that he believes he can follow.

“They've run out of coffee flavour,” she adds.

“I will have strawberry,” pronounces the world famous detective.

The silence between them starts to become uncomfortable.

“The fog's annoying,” says the young woman.

“Yes!” He is too enthusiastic. Chat is good. He doesn't know how to continue it, though. He says, “Yes” again, but more quietly this time.

“Where are you going to?” she asks.

It is a natural enough question. There is only a 7% chance that he should not answer her truthfully.

“Cairo.” It is a lie.

She leans back a little in the seat and picks out a chocolate chip with her fingers. “We're going to Paris,” she says before popping it into her mouth.

“Be careful there.” He should say nothing. There are things he knows that other people do not know. Paris. Is it just coincidence? He taps into his laptop, observing, “They have the same number of letters.” He quickly reads a message on his screen, closing it down as he comments, “Three letters in common.” Gnomically, he adds, “32% chance.”

She looks confused, almost disturbed. She stands.

“Where are the ice creams?” he asks again.

“I told you!”

He nods, despite the fact that what she has told him revealed nothing about the whereabouts of the frozen dessert vendor.

“Tokyo has five letters, too,” she says.

“But no 'A'” he replies warily, wondering at her motivation.

“Two 'O's look like glasses.”

Now L is shocked. How could she possibly know? Only three people know about that e-mail. Her ice cream is finished. She licks the last trace from her hand. L leaps to his feet, but in doing so he knocks his laptop bag off the bench. Mini cookies roll out onto the floor.

He glances down briefly. Under the bench there are lollipops, dozens of red lollipops. He had no lollipops left, they can not have come out of his bag, yet they were not there when he sat down. He only stares for a second or two, but by the time he looks up again the English lolita has gone.

He heard no footsteps. Despite the rocking-horse shoes.

He runs to the end of the corridor, scans the crowd at the bar. None of them has a bow on her headband. She is not there.

 **THE END**


End file.
